Guy de Maupassant complete short stories volume 2 - Penn State ...

were in bloom, the cocks crowed on the dung hill. The whole
dwelling seemed empty, the farm hands had gone to the fields
to their spring toil. He stopped near the gate and looked into
the yard. The dog was asleep outside his kennel, three calves
were walking slowly, one behind the other, towards the pond.
A big turkey was strutting before the door, parading before the
turkey hens like a singer at the opera.
Benoist leaned against the gate post and was suddenly seized
with a desire to weep. But suddenly, he heard a cry, a loud cry
for help coming from the house. He was struck with dismay, his
hands grasping the wooden bars of the gate, and listened attentively.
Another cry, a prolonged, heartrending cry, reached his
ears, his soul, his flesh. It was she who was crying like that! He
darted inside, crossed the grass patch, pushed open the door,
and saw her lying on the floor, her body drawn up, her face
livid, her eyes haggard, in the throes of childbirth.
He stood there, trembling and paler than she was, and stammered:
“Here I am, here I am, Martine!”
She replied in gasps:
“Oh, do not leave me, do not leave me, Benoist!”
He looked at her, not knowing what to say, what to do. She
began to cry out again:
Martine
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“Oh, oh, it is killing me. Oh, Benoist!”
She writhed frightfully.
Benoist was suddenly seized with a frantic longing to help
her, to quiet her, to remove her pain. He leaned over, lifted her
up and laid her on her bed; and while she kept on moaning he
began to take off her clothes, her jacket, her skirt and her petticoat.
She bit her fists to keep from crying out. Then he did as
he was accustomed to doing for cows, ewes, and mares: he assisted
in delivering her and found in his hands a large infant
who was moaning.
He wiped it off and wrapped it up in a towel that was drying
in front of the fire, and laid it on a bundle of clothes ready for
ironing that was on the table. Then he went back to the mother.
He took her up and placed her on the floor again, then he
changed the bedclothes and put her back into bed. She faltered:
“Thank you, Benoist, you have a noble heart.” And then she
wept a little as if she felt regretful.
He did not love her any longer, not the least bit. It was all
over. Why? How? He could not have said. What had happened
had cured him better than ten years of absence.
She asked, exhausted and trembling:
“What is it?”